𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄.

//starter for @relivepast

He almost finds it funny, that no matter where he goes, inhumane tragedy is sure to follow. Fergus blinks first at the sign, then the 'confection' in his hands, and finally back inside the shop. How exactly did he get here, again?

...

It all started on that day of classes. It was ordinary, like any other. The blonde walked in with his nose held high and his spirits soaring overhead--full of confidence, as he was known to be. Just shy of a month, and he had adjusted his life to the academy. He got up at a consistent hour, ate bread or porridge before a brief study in the library, and maybe passed the Prince on his way. He shaved every three days, bathed as it was available to him--enjoyed the peace of it all, really. And the gentle beat of everyday life made his heart thrum in tandem, guiding him into his seat that morning. But before he could scrawl down the date at the top of his page, he was shocked into forgetting. Eyvel walked in, that woman from back in the day.

Even worse, she taught, and he learned from her.

It went without saying that he'd approach her after the lecture. As he did, he couldn't help the smile hanging on his mouth. He could feel that she recognized him, too, that their reunion was one of mutual joy. A bit of back-and-forth, here-and-there, and they agreed to try that 'Ice Creamatory' stuff.

"So! Haven't seen you in a minute. I'd have thought you'd have gray hairs by now," he laughed, once they sat down to eat. His order was a 'Noa Fruit Gelato', said by the shopkeep to be one of the denser, stretchier desserts. And the guy wasn't kidding. Fergus marveled at how it was almost like a fudge, but fruity and cold (and if he was being honest, had an aftertaste). While he chewed, he looked around the room.

One big, sterilized box. With porcelain tiles sharply cut and pale blue. With them under every step one takes, it was hard for Fergus to feel like he wasn't in an uncanny ocean. The windows were also small and high off the ground, a trait he knew was shared by prisons. And beyond the wooden counter and wooden menu sat an enormous stockpile of wooden crates. Or, at least, he thought they were crates. He found them each so big and only lit by a dim, flickering flame further back that Fergus never got a good read on their function.

He eventually shrugged, and refocused on Eyvel. She was what really mattered, here.

A mug is waved in his face, and slurred words tell him what he already knows- the scent of alcohol strong enough that this information was merely redundant. He decides to humor the other, having played along for so long. (And if he were softened by the drink, he would not admit so.)

“Very well. Seek me out again someday, then.” The trick was more complicated than something that could be puzzled out, especially for one knowing nothing of him but his apparent immunity to the effects of alcohol- but he is willing to grant the other a bit of hope. 

As the other takes in a breath, Sephiran lifts his sleeve to cover his face- both to stifle the growing scent of the drink, and to hide his expression should he find the information particularly interesting. He raises an eyebrow, the remainder of his face hidden behind a layer of cloth.

“Hm… I see. Thank you for your honesty,” For the way the confession was presented, he will give it the benefit of the doubt, “young man. Or perhaps, young lord?”

His voice becomes teasing for a moment, but he lowers his arm and stands, giving one last glance to the reckless student and smiling. “I look forward to our next meeting, you who trades with secrets.”

“Sometimes knowing what you shouldn’t do helps you decide on what you should. I can agree with not learning riding or swordplay, though - the skirts make it difficult.” A fond memory, of trying to drape her skirts in just a way so she could ride behind one of her knights, and only barely finding a solution. She turns them a final time before stopping entirely. “I don’t know exactly. I’ve thought about maybe trying to pick up magic again - I tried when I was young but had no talent.” 

She studies him for a moment - a sellsword, by his own admission, unsure what to do now that war had released its hold. She felt the same, in some aspect - what use is a tactician in peacetime? 

He shrugs, and he meets her gaze as she looks him over. Whenever people do that, Fergus can't help but imagine what they see in him. Does she know, perhaps? Has this girl--who he had only just met--already torn through his paper-thin ruse?

She's sharp, if so. Fergus keeps his chin up.

"And hey, no need to apologize. A conversation only goes where it's meant to, right?" Mark is offered not only a reassuring nod but also the freeblade's hand, which steadies itself against her body as he resumes tapping out a beat. "Glad I met 'ya. Now let's show you what to do when the music drops."

Step by fleeting step, they dance onward. Fergus slowly broadens Mark's horizon with all manner of twirl and twist and shimmy--each a flicker of the potential beneath his simple demeanor. He has greatness in him, all he's got to do is reach into his blood and pull it out.

In any case, he gives her questions some thought. For as much as he has taught her about dancing, she teaches him how to go about the rest of his life.

“Five…? That is quite a lot, but I shall see what I can do.” Unlike Fergus, Sephiran has no hurry in claiming a second mug, nor does he down it with half as much enthusiasm. A gentle swirl, to reveal if there were to be any impurities- or perhaps more accurately, poison- before letting the beverage touch his lips.

If it was a challenge in the past, when he was not much younger but far more naive, it was now mere child’s play- though perhaps that was a poor choice of words, given the nature of the competition. He acknowledges the other's challenge only by picking another mug- delicately, as if it were a glass instead.

It was not the alcohol that he was concerned of, but the spices within, meant to warm the body with the cold weather outside. In the end, he was protected against poison of drink, but the spices were technically harmless.

The first and second were fine, the third and fourth told him he had no need to seek secrets so eagerly, and the fifth reminded him that his appearance was that of a holy man. Somewhat abashed, he seeks no more- instead giving Fergus a slight smile.

By the fourth drink, Fergus is left praying. Be it Bragi or Naga or whoever else wants to listen in this foreign land, he clasps his hands around the circumference of his drink in hopes that someone would smite him down. "Man, no way..." he mutters, "...Look at you go!"

The last empty mug his the table. Regret pinches him on the nose. "Damn, guess you really taught me. I oughta stop runnin' around making stupid bets!" He laughs again. Defeat doesn't dig any deeper than the skin. Fergus is no sore loser, and so he offers a smile as he throws back the rest of the grape. He'll feel it in the morning, but if this stuck-up guy can somehow survive five in a row, the blonde'll live through a sixth.

"Mm, alright, alright. I said I was fair, didn't I?" The cup waves in front of the minister's face without aim or direction. There is probably some point to the gesture, but Fergus' movements are sloshed enough to muddle it. "I'll be real honest with you. Only 'cause, when we play again, I'll find out your trick, and then you'll be real honest with me!"

Deep breath. In through the nose--where the air is cool and crisp--and out through the mouth. It heats up with the stink of the wine as it billows out.

it is that thought that automatically guides her to the kitchen while some last minute guests are still coming in— greeted rather diligently by lord sigurd and lady ethlyn.

hearing some humming in the kitchen, she can't help but be a little curious. "excuse me." she approaches, and when he turns to look at her she stops where she is.

this isn't a person she recognizes, not by voice or name, but something of his facial features comes familiar to her. she blinks slowly, staring at him for a moment and trying to place why his facial features are so familiar. he looks like he'd handle a sword well.

'my name's fergus, a sellsword from jugdral.'

the same continent, but the familiarity is more than that, more personal. before she can try to pick the face out from her vast amount of memories, she realizes she's gone completely silent. edain rushes to bow her head in something of an apologetic gesture. "apologies, fergus. i.. didn't mean to stare or anything." is what she manages to come up with.

she's done worse in her apologies, at least. "i am, yes. i know the two hosting the feast. our families were very familiar with each other and would host something similar every year. it's only right that i help out in the kitchen." she smiles softly at the warm memory of a chalphy-yngvi gathering, looking to the ground for a brief moment before her gaze flits over to meet his directly.

His eyes squint as he lets out a snide laugh. He banters with satire fueling his jets, betraying not a hint of severity in his laidback tone. He's a cloud rolling over an afternoon sun, only to disappear moments later.

What she says next wipes the smirk off his face. He wrenches his head from the clouds to pay greater attention to her, amber eyes going wide at the information she wears on her sleeve. "No kidding? I sort of know the hostess, but that guy--Sigurd--isn't he a living legend?"

Not so much as Thracia was concerned, for she has her own heroes, but the rest of the continent just never shut up about the dude. Fergus almost grew sick of him.

"Yngvi, though... Yeah, sure--rings a bell. But I would've guessed Fiana first." He turns away from his boiling pot to study Edain's features now, convincing himself that he is indeed right before saying anything further. A small-but-innocent purse forms in his lips. He's knocking down the doubts, one by one. "You've got the face of someone that'd be from those parts. The hair, too..."

And as he looks further, even their heights are almost comparable. And their eyes, and the motherly aura the blonde exudes. It's all a lot like that character from Leif's kidnapping story. This isn't her mirror image, right?

It’s not the fault of her teacher, of course - a handsome man who’d swept her outside promising to teach her the basics of ballroom dancing. She’d been watching the others dancing, and must have looked longing enough for him to offer help. She’d been observing, studying, internalizing. 

It leaves her stiff. Nervous. So when he tells her to relax, to have fun, well... 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, a with a small bow of her head. “I’ve never danced like this before. Thank you for teaching me, really. Can I try those steps again?” 

He taps a beat for her, and she pats the side of her skirt in time, pressing the rhythm into her mind. 

“Right, I see. You have to be confident for it to work.” Like a battlefield. Each move must be with utmost confidence, or your opponent will feel it. 

Not that this man was her enemy - far from it! 

He takes her hand gently and leads her around the quiet courtyard again, and though it is near silent, the chirping of the crickets and the hum of voices behind her calms her, focuses her. The night air is clear, and though there is no music, it feels a perfect place to learn, padded slippers on paved stones. As they step, her form loosens, and she allows a small smile to creep to her lips.

Why doesn't he actually start with what he isn't studying?

"Nothin' to do with swords or horseback riding, that's for sure." He slackens on their dance during his explanation, giving Mark the opportunity to regurgitate his lessons back at him. Things continue like this for a while, with the blonde's wide-swaying motions dying down into ripples in a pond. "and I'd prefer to skip history, if I can. That class bores me half to sleep..."

He realizes he's sounding picky, and so he shoots his brow further up his head. "Government's fun, though. I keep an open book, but it'd be nice to be something better than a sellsword." If, by some miracle, he finds a way to quell his bursts of anger. Fergus can't imagine holding any kind of professional job where he talks with his knuckles before his mouth.

He plugs his stream of rambling and sets his feet flat against the grass. They could pick up their dance at any moment, but Fergus wants to ask something first:

Perhaps it was his demeanor, deemed too solemn for such a cheerful event, or perhaps he was simply uncomfortable- he had not regretted arriving, for he was duty-bound to witness the simple joys of beorc and laguz, but that did not mean he was accustomed to the venue- that the man takes it upon himself to approach. With familiarity, despite his admittance otherwise.

“Ah, greetings?” His address is spoken with a lilt, question in his tone alone. “It is a pleasure to-”

The mug is handed to him, and he takes it, though his past experience tells him to test it for poison. But with the ease of a child’s dare, Fergus continues to speak- not knowing the truth of his very own words lie elsewhere. Sephiran smiles, though perhaps more strained than he normally allows.

"You're thinking like a merc. Let's see, I've had..." he recounts the drinks on his hand. The first two sat nicely with him, the smell of spices thawing his nose from a long, flavorless winter. The next one was a splash of hot oil on a skillet; Fergus felt warmth seep into his chest as he drank. Then the last two crept into his head, the poison brewed beneath decadent flavor coming through on a tongue numbed to taste. He waggles his fingers when he finishes counting.

"Five. I'm a fair guy, so for every time you beat my record I'll let something slip."

Though he finds that a pleasant arrangement, he won't let it stop him from wading into the throng of revelry. Fergus swipes another mug off the table (seriously, that chef must be working hard to put them out so fast) and brings it to his nose. He allows himself a deep whiff before the liquid sloshes against his lips.

Against the brine of broken bones that taverns under Loptyrian rule could afford, the Chalphy wine is downright ambrosial.

Broad arms fold, and the fluttering of his winter's cloak follows; a grumble rumbles beneath the sternum, but he permits his footfalls follow suit.

A debt indeed was it to sapphire Lord Chalphy and spry thulian Lady Leonster to host festive entertainment ( for he himself would never have extended laboring hands to yield such into a spectacle of feasting banquets and merriment. )

"Then you are of the foraging, wilderness ilk," He ponders aloud, taking rod into hand and reeling in its loose length. Macedon boasted no industry of fishing, but seaside as it lay, it held ( for those unbothered doing so atop winged back, for jagged cliffs made long falls for their bait ) myriad a coastline whereby one may cast their rod and procure a salty dweller.

Casting line over shoulder and loosing it at its pinnacle ( much, he thinks, like an archer would his arrow if fishing should be violent ), its end plops! into steady waters and ripples throughout.

That much is well and true. Fergus did often gaze at those bowmen on their way into the woods, wondering at what point in the road to Leonster they would fork their path. It was the kind of experience that goaded his free spirit, rolling him like clay until he became the man he is now. 

“But I always preferred fishing. It’s nice to nap by the beach and still have something to eat for dinner.” 

He unlatches his hook from his rod and permits it to dangle. Practiced hands gentle tug until the string is pulled taught. Then, holding with both hands, he makes for the pond. “I take it you don’t? I’ll tell you this, though: you’ve got something serious if you can get mad at fishin’. Just close your eyes and let loose if it ever gets to you.” 

…Is it, though?

The way the fire crackled with the addition of their timber felt different. Homey. Warm. Like a little shoppe tucked in the crook of a city, with those candleholders and expensive lamp oils Fergus would stare wide-eyed at. The way humble folk made a living under an imperial thumb, with whatever they had, for whoever they had, was reflected in the shadow of their shared pyre. That thing was built on the back of an easier time. 

Fergus felt guilty for trying to spoil the moment. He looked to the curved sheath on his hip in a moment of stillness. Was it even worth bringing up? He made the necessary leaps long ago—that those talks of Diarmuid & the princess and the sword only they could draw made them some sort of family. Some sort of twisted, mangled family—where Fergus was a branch on the tree that got snapped off. Nanna was so overjoyed to see him—a bastard child—that it was easy to forget what he was not. Sending letters sounded fun, even if the pen had never been his best friend. 

Mother would smile to see him writing something earnestly. 

“I’ve been wondering,” he lied, pushing the hilt on his blade so that it rested further up his belt, “who taught you how to swing swords like that? No offense, but I haven’t met many princesses who even feel comfortable picking one up.” Not ones like mother, at least. It was her detest of violence that always had Fergus hanging his head low with guilt whenever he got into a fight.

But if that sounded like a plain thing to talk about, that’s because it was. It wasn’t a particularly good lie, only thought up mere blinks before Fergus spoke it. He needed something to fill the space where he retreated back into himself. Asking for the methods behind her aristeias helped keep the conversation stuck to her, too.

He sat by the fire, legs outstretched to where its glow could lick his academy trousers.

It's not like she's serious either. Not entirely.

She throws her head back with a laugh and offers her hand in a firm shake. "Ethlyn Claus. My brother, Sigurd, and I are hosting. Don't take me too seriously. You, of course, are welcome to a great time!"

Ow. What kind of lady pokes a charming young guy at a dinner party?

Fergus whips around to meet her, his low ponytail flying behind his back. It's only his first day out here, so he sort of just stumbled in--didn't even have time to get dressed--but things looked so lively he simply couldn't exclude himself! Now he's biting himself for it. The woman blabbers on, but between the slight sting on his chest and his waning attention, he could care less.

That is, of course, until he hears the name 'Sigurd.' "Woah, woah, wait." He hesitates to shake her hand, a smile of his own creeping over his face, "Sigurd? Like, that hotshot from Chalphy? So you're Grannvale..."

Like those dogs that harassed Karin. Fergus should be beating her up right now.

Her hand is suddenly seized with a crushing grip, and shaken so hard her shoulders jostle in their sockets. "You guys never change, always laying it thick on the little guy! Name's Fergus," he laughs, deciding to ley bygones be bygones and play along with her joke, "I'll get myself well-acquainted, don't you worry."

A pause as he returns her hand to him. It eluded him before, but the hosts of Baldr's Bounty are well and true Jugdralis--not some Crusader-pushing posers.

"Oh yeah both and raised in Chalphy though I'm from Leonster now."

The name Fergus sounds familiar. Rings a bell she can't quite place until he mentions Leif. Ethlyn's grin grows wide. He has to be. There's no way he isn't. That's just too coincidental.

Yep. He connected the dots before Ethlyn drew her line. But the smile on his face is no less satisfied as a result. He’s glad he decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong this time. It’s earned him something far more valuable than gold.

“Damn, apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” he guffaws, reacting to Ethlyn’s jab and playfully swatting at her arm, “what kinda crazy kid introduces a guy like me with prison?” 

He isn’t the least bit bothered, though. In fact, this lady inspires intrigue faster than she does discomfort. Wasn’t she supposed to be dead? And would she know something of father, being of his time? 

The former is a rude thing to ask of a woman, and the latter would dampen Fergus’ good spirits, so he decides to bottle away both questions for later. They’d sit neatly on the shelf inside his head, waiting for their chance to see the sunshine. 

Fergus whistles a jaunty tune, none the wiser to the sound of footsteps creeping after him. Right now he's busying himself in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled to his arms and his eyes brimming with the intent to help out. He's a party crasher, sure, but no freeloader. He'll pull his weight around here, especially for Leif's extended family. The other blonde has ample time to file in behind him.

"Hm-hm, hmm-hmm-hmm~" He hacks into a pair of fresh steaks, his knifework made decent by practice with a blade. While not exactly a gourmet cut, Fergus at least has a steady hand. They have also been dusted with salt--a surprising feat for the Thracian. Then, it comes time to cook them. Most folk would turn to the stove now, heating up a skillet before tossing the meat on top. If they're particularly gifted, they'd throw in some butter to baste.

Fergus does none of these things.

He dumps water into a pot until it's about half full. Placing it under a running fire, he allows the water to begin heating up before nonchalantly--and it needs to be stressed that he doesn't have a care in the world as he does this--plops his steaks into the water. The flavoring wastes right off.

It's easy to lose oneself. The night's temptations are many, and her good company provides a hearth on which to warm one's soul. As Fergus flaunts about, he slowly loses track of the sword on his hip. Tonight would be a magical night for gathering information about Beowolf--where he moved, how he lived, how Fergus could deepen his hatred--but a few drinks in, and he's half-sloshed and at another man's shoulder.

Thracia be damned, this is too much fun. The glow of merriment is not wasted on his amber eyes.

"Hey," he chirps, offering a friendly wink, "Fergus here. I'm new, mostly finding my way around these parts. But man, either I'm a Crusader or you look stiff!" He pats the minister down and hops off, plucking a mug of spiced wine from the table to push into his chest. If there is one thing he'll never forget, it's how company can always trek the long road. Be it fighting, travel, or just plain passing the time--everything is better with another. And he'd consider it a slight to his moral compass if he left poor Sephiran out of the fun.

Fergus walks out the dining hall with his head thrown back. Laughter spills from him like water from a slit-open skin. This guy's great. For every bit intimidating and imperial he looks, he's on the same level as Fergus--a bastard child who earns his keep with his sword. "Right, right! Look, man, I totally get neglecting to bring something. My hands were empty too!" The doors were burst open with an excited blonde leading the charge. They peter shut now, his amber eyes casting their lot at the redhead all the while. "But I think we owe it to that Ethlyn character, so c'mon, I'll show you something."

He's retracing recent footsteps as he walks, so the route nearly gets de-railed, but once he finds familiar ground he's well off. A few minutes of walking through the brisk night air, and he pipes up. "There." He nods, taking the Macedon to none other than the fishing pond.

"Saw this place on my way here. Judging by the rods someone left around, it's some sort of fishing hole." He bends down to scoop them both up. One changes hands, and the other promptly sticks out at Michalis: an offer for him to take.

"Easy now, easy... Dancing's supposed to be fun. You've gotta relax if you wanna have fun."

Fergus' voice is a silky soft glaze, like honey poured over milk and toast. When he offered his services in teaching the tactician how to move around a ballroom, he wasn't sure of what to expect. Seeing her step now, he realizes he's dealing with an amateur. It's no skin off his back, but he needs to be careful not to drop or scare her.

It doesn't make things easier that they're alone in the courtyard. No music plays for them but the occasional hum of crickets, with the moon and stars acting as their chandelier. Fergus begins gingerly counting a beat by tapping his right foot, the bob of his head mimicking in perfect sync.

"See the way I'm moving? You can't drag your feet, either. I'm not the kind of guy to make a big speech outta dancing, but you've really got to step with conviction."

He demonstrates by taking her by the hand and leading her through a small circuit. Back, and forth. Like the rocking of a ship, docked by the moor of Conote. His years away from home could never erase what the steady waves did to his rhythm.